My Cup Runneth Over
by Liv-FanficLover
Summary: Castiel's got alot on his hands when he realizes that there's a  new evil on the loose- demon fever. This new strain causes a lot of pain for the angel, and now he must ask the Winchester's for their help in the matter. But will they help? Reviews loved!
1. Chapter 1

**My Cup Runneth Over**

**Credit:** To Erik Kripke, maker of the wonderful Supernatural. They are your characters, never mine.

**Chapter 1:**

A soft whimpering escaped from the young woman as she huddled against the corner of two perpendicular boxes. She listened hard, trying to hear any kind of sound that would alert her of the person that was hunting her. She heard nothing, except her own erratically beating heart and her sharp breathing.

After minutes of waiting and hearing nothing, the woman finally closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. It was okay now. But no sooner did she think that did she hear a sudden sound— the sound of the floor creaking under the weight of another being. The young woman's eyes snapped open and she stopped breathing, listening hard. Her eyes were huge, and filled with utter fear. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead as she listened for any more sound from the intruder, trying not to make a sound of her own. Finally she did hear something else; another creak in the floor. But this time it sounded farther away, and she could tell that they were on the other side of the room. The young woman focused her eyes through the darkness, seeing the exit only yards away from her hiding spot. If only she could just sneak over there, shut the door, lock it and call the police… She could get out of this nightmare and it would all be over. _Breathe, _the woman thought, trying to regain her self control, _just peek out and see if he's there…_ The woman took a deep breath, and then as slowly as she could she moved just slightly, peering out above the boxes as quickly as she could. Nothing. The area was clear. There was no one standing in the dark, even near the other side of the room. The woman almost let out another sigh of relief, but instead she ducked back down, fighting back the urge to just scream from anxiety. She had to get out, and now was her only chance. With a burst of courage, the woman moved out from her hiding place, not taking her eyes off of the exit near her. She moved swiftly, and before she knew it, she could feel the fresh outside air on her face, and she could smell the scent of burning firewood. The woman almost burst out in joy as she turned around, ready to slam the door shut to her garage, locking the man inside for good. Just as the woman grabbed the handle to the door, she stopped. Something wasn't right. The woman listened, and what she heard made her skin crawl with fear. She could hear slight breathing. _Right behind her._ The woman's eyes grew big again as she realized that there was someone behind her. And there was only one person she knew could _possibly _be behind her. With a daring motion and a cry of fear, the young woman turned on the spot, ready to face the man who was hunting her. But when she did, she was faced with— nothing. There was only empty space behind her. No one was standing there. The woman let out a sigh of relief, inwardly scolding herself for her imagination. A nervous smile playing on her lips, the woman turned around, finally ready to triumphantly slam the door to the garage. When she did, however, she found herself staring at a darkened figure in the doorway of the garage. The woman immediately let out a heightened scream, her voice breaking the quiet night air. The woman spun on the spot, ready to run, but she was too late. She felt a hand wrap around her hair, pulling her back toward the garage. The woman screamed again, kicking, pulling, elbowing as much as she could, trying to hurt her attacker. But he seemed unaffected. He pulled on her again, and the woman could feel her scalp burning from the jerking of her hair. Her attacker pulled her back into the garage, even while she fought him. When darkness overtook them, the woman let out a cry of fury, and broke loose from her attacker, feeling her hair being ripped from her head. She whipped around, ready to fight. But again she was too slow for the man; he reached around, wrapping his arm around her neck, pulling out a silver knife. The woman screamed again, trying to pry off the man's arm. Finally she elbowed him hard into his stomach, and for a moment he let go. The woman took off again, heading for the door. But before she reach it, she felt a hand on her back, and she went tumbling to the floor. Her knees made contact with the floor, searing pain coursing through her. She crawled on her knees a moment, ignoring the pain in her legs. She flipped on her back to see her attacker, ready to kick him to fight him off. But instead he dropped to his knees and before the woman could do anything, he had her legs pinned to the floor.

"No," the woman pleaded, her voice hoarse, "please, no…" her attacker said nothing. He only leaned forward, highlighting his face. The woman glimpsed his face for a moment; bright cerulean-coloured eyes, dark hair, and a fierce expression like she had never seen. But that was all she saw, for the man raised his hand, a silver knife dripping in blood that was gleaming in the dim light.

"No, no," the woman pleaded again, her eyes growing large again. But the man showed no mercy, nor any kind of reluctance. Instead he brought the knife down upon her, blood splattering up onto his face. As he drove the knife into the woman, a bright light abruptly emanated from the woman through the orifices in her face. And so it was finished.

The man stood from his victim, and reached up, casually wiping the blood from his face. He then tucked the knife into his tan-coloured trench coat, his face impassive. Then in the blink of an eye, the man was gone, leaving the blood-splattered and dead woman on the floor of her garage, blood seeping onto the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

A light autumn breeze struck the ground, colliding with a lone leaf that was settled against the cool blacktop. The leaf brushed to the side, floating gracefully into the air, and then landing again on the blacktop. All seemed peaceful, gentle, and tranquil.

That is until a black streak of a vehicle abruptly came zooming into view, flying over the leaf and crushing it to smithereens. The black car, a shiny, 1967 Chevy Impala, flew down the suburban street like a black dagger, heading for its target. But pretty soon the Impala came to a quick and precise stop next to a curb, sending multi-coloured leaves flying everywhere.

The driver's side door opened with a bit of a loud creak, signaling the antique age of the vehicle. Following that was the creaking sound of the passenger's side door opened, and then both doors slammed shut with force. A tall young man, who just came from the passenger's side of the Impala, walked around to the front of the car to stand next to a shorter man of whom was staring up at the house they had stopped in front of, which was their destination.

Sam Winchester let out a sigh, looking up at the house.

"Well, this is it," he said, his voice sounding exhausted.

"This place is too peaceful," Dean Winchester replied, glancing sideways at his brother, and then he glared around the suburb.

"I know what you mean," Sam replied, also glancing around at the oddly-peaceful neighborhood.

"It's creepy," Dean muttered, "like Martha Stuart-creepy…" Sam ignored his brother's comment by walking away from the Impala, and heading toward the house that was settled so quietly up ahead of them.

As the pair of them walked up to the door, Dean quickly straightened his black tie— he and his brother were both dressed in suits for their job, which was quite uncharacteristic for the both of them. When they reached the door, Sam was the one who knocked on the door. They stood back as they listened for the sound of someone coming to answer the door.

The wooden oak door of the house slowly opened up, revealing a mournful face of a middle-aged woman.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking that them suspiciously.

"Hello ma'am, I'm Agent Greene and this is Agent Parkson," Dean spoke first, and he and Sam both pulled out a badge to show to the lady. The lady sighed, her eyes looking baggy.

"I already answered questions for the Police and FBI," she said, and they could hear a sigh in her voice.

"We know ma'am, but this is just a routine questioning to make sure the facts are correct," Sam added, his voice sounding grave. The lady looked at him, almost seeming reluctant. And then she opened the door to allow the Winchester's in.

"It all started… about a week ago," the woman said. She was sitting on a couch across from the Winchesters who were watching her without speaking.

"Sarah was… acting strange. She kept saying that she felt like someone was watching her. And… and that's when she started feeling ill."

"She started feeling ill?" Sam asked, curious.

"Yeah, she used to get sick quite often… and she hasn't for a while, but I think it was because she was so stressed. She never got paranoid about people following her," the woman added, looking up at both brothers.

"How was your sister acting while she was feeling ill?" Sam asked. "Any change in her normal behavior?"

"Um… not that I can remember… She complained of bad headaches, chills, fevers. And she had nightmares some nights," the woman said, "bad ones."

Sam nodded, jotting this down on a slip of paper.

"Is there anything else you can remember, Mrs. Clydson?" Dean asked. The woman thought a moment.

"Well… I never saw anyone following Sarah," Mrs. Clydson said, thinking deeply, "but then she hardly went anywhere once she started feeling ill."

"Where was the last place you know your sister was before she started feeling ill?" Sam asked, jotting down what Mrs. Clydson was saying.

"Um… I can't really remember… She never got out much except for work. Sometimes she would go places after work but she never told me where… Probably bars and such, with friends."

Dean glanced at his brother a moment, and they caught each other's eyes briefly. That was a lead.

"So you don't know where that might've been then?" Dean asked, looking back at the woman. Mrs. Clydson shook her head.

"Well, I believe that's all we need to know at this time," Sam said, and he and Dean both stood up. The woman stood up after them.

"I'm sorry we had to trouble you with this inconvenience," Sam said sincerely, looking at Mrs. Clydson with a bit of pity.

"It's alright… I knew people would need to ask…" It was quiet a moment, and then Dean and Sam turned to leave.

"Wait," the woman said, "I forgot something… I do remember seeing someone at one point," she said. Dean and Sam both turned, looking curious.

"You do?" Dean asked. The woman nodded quickly.

"A man, standing across the street, looking at out house."

"What did he look like?" Sam asked.

"Um… I didn't really get a good look at him… tall… dark hair… A light-coloured coat. I only saw him a split second," Mrs. Clydson answered.

Dean glanced at his brother a moment, who had his brow furrowed in thought.

"Ma'am," Dean said, looking back at the woman, his voice solemn, "there is one more thing." Mrs. Clydson looked at him curiously.

"We're going to need to see the crime scene."

Dean knelt down, looking at the floor of the garage. There was a prominent blood stain on the concrete, and in a spot that was evident that that was where the woman who was murdered was found. Sam was kneeling on the opposite of Dean, peering around for any sign of sulphur— the sign that a demon was present.

"No sulphur over here," Dean said.

"None here either," Sam replied. There seemed to be no evidence of any demon.

"It can't be a demon," Sam said, standing up. Dean followed suit, looking around.

"No," Dean agreed. The pair of them looked around a bit more, trying to find any evidence of something that might lead them to a monster.

"Dean, I don't think this is our kind of case," Sam said after a while. Dean stopped, looking over at his brother.

"You heard what Bobby said," Dean replied, "the weather patterns were clearly pointing toward demonic, or just plain evil around here. Besides, there have been other murders around these parts, exactly the same. They get ill, start getting paranoid, and then they're ganked."

"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Sam suggested, "maybe, this time, it really is a psychopath." Dean shook his head and turned away to keep looking around. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's stubborn attitude. He looked back down at the floor at the crime scene. He studied it a moment, feeling quite disgusted at it.

"God this guy must've been strong," Sam muttered, glancing around, noting the fact that the door was ripped from its hinges. Dean looked back over at Sam. Sam furrowed his brow again, looking closely at the scene.

"She must've tried to get away," he said. The blood stain was only a foot away from where Sarah was murdered. Sam walked toward the door, looking outside. He glanced at the ground, and to his surprise he saw something in the browning grass. He bent down, picking up a thin chunk of hair. He held it up in the light, and then he looked over at his brother.

"She must've got outside," he said quietly. Dean looked at the hair, and then back at the blood-stain.

"And he dragged her back inside…" Dean muttered. He knelt back down again, looking closely at the floor of the garage.

"Huh," he grunted, and then he frowned.

"Take a look at this Sammy," he said, and he picked something up off the floor gently. Sam walked back inside the garage.

"Lousy police," Dean muttered, and he held up a piece of metal.

"From a knife?" Sam asked. Dean nodded. Sam carefully took the hunk of metal from his brother. Sam studied it a moment before noticing something peculiar about it.

"These markings look familiar," he said, turning the piece in the light to get a better look at it. Engravings could be seen in the metal.

"Yeah no _normal_ guy has a knife with engravings like that," Dean pointed out. Sam rolled his eyes again.

"Don't you dare say it's a coincidence," Dean added harshly.

"I wasn't," Sam threw back, "so what are you suggesting?"

"Think Sam," Dean said, his face turning grave, "who has a knife with engravings like these? _Enochian_ _engravings?_"

It took Sam a moment to realize what Dean was saying.

"You can't be serious?" he said, looking bewildered, "_Castiel?_"

"Well, do you have any ideas?" Dean questioned smartly.

"Castiel? A murderer?" Sam said.

"He's gotta have a good reason for wasting her," Dean replied, and they stood up from the garage floor.

"But why the hell would an _angel_ do something like this?" Sam asked, "I mean, this isn't exactly clean or anything."

"Sam, if you haven't noticed, angel's aren't exactly on the 'gentle loving-kindness' list of creatures," Dean said darkly.

"Yeah, but, we know Castiel. He wouldn't do something like this without good reason," Sam added. Both he and his brother stared gravely at each other.

"Well there's only one way to find out," Dean replied.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The chilly autumn weather proved itself as it stung the air with blasts of ice cold wind, giving the air a sort of winter-like feel. All was still, except for the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind tickled it's branches. And of course the two people who were jogging steadily down a rugged path through the icy air. They were a young couple, early twenties; a thin blonde woman, side-by-side with a dark-headed man who was of a slightly bulky build. They were simply taking their daily morning jog through the park, enjoying the chilly October air.

Things were peaceful, tranquil, like any other morning had been. The weather was fair, and everything was normal. Or so it seemed.

"I have a meeting at… Five o'clock this afternoon, so I won't be making it to supper tonight, again," the man said as the two continued to jog. For a moment a bit of a sour-like look crossed his wife's face.

"This is the third night in a row, John…" she said quietly, trying not to sound critical in any way.

"I know, Ruth," John replied, trying to keep his voice warm, "but you know things get busy in October."

Ruth gave no reply. She only stared straight ahead of her as her husband jogged beside her.

"Oh, by the way," Ruth said after a few minutes, sounding casual, but there was a bit of a bite to her tone. "I saw that you had a receipt from a bar a couple days ago."

John was quiet for a moment, and Ruth smirked to herself.

"Yeah I went out with the guys the other night," John finally replied.

"I thought you had a meeting that night?" Ruth questioned further.

"I went _after_ the meeting," John replied rather quickly, flustered at his wife's accusatory tone. Ruth fell quiet again, though a dark sort of feeling crept over her, which John could sense. But he said nothing to fuel her nagging attitude.

The two continued on, both faces flushed from the heat rising in their bodies to compensate against the chilly air. Ruth wanted to question her husband more, but she held back for the sake of their relationship, which was beginning, in her eyes, to falter slightly.

After moments, though, Ruth began to feel flustered by her husbands' lack of words in the subject. To her, her husband was obviously hiding something. If he refused to talk about the problems, or simply the fact that his words did not match the facts that Ruth had found, then there was something wrong right there.

"John, you know you can tell me anything," Ruth started up again, trying to sound gentle. But this time, John grew angry.

"Ruth, stop it," he said, his voice darkened.

"John, I just want to know—" Ruth started, but in the middle of her sentence, John stopped jogging. Ruth cut off, and stopped jogging as well.

"Ruth I am so _sick_ of your attitude!" John said, his voice rising. Ruth felt a sting of shock at her husband's sudden hostility.

"John—" she started, but he cut her off again.

"No, Ruth!" John continued, "ever since I started hanging out with _my_ friends you have been nagging on me and nagging on me!"

"John, I never—"

"Can't you ever just shut your damn mouth?"

Ruth fell silent, feeling an odd pain in her chest. John never acted this way. Ever. Ruth stared at her husband, who was breathing heavily, his eye glinting darkly in the morning light.

"I'm going home," he said coldly, glaring at his wife, "don't expect me later at all." And with that, John turned around and walked away, leaving his wife standing in the cold alone, going over the conversation which she had just had with her husband.

Moments passed. Ruth was finally brought back to her senses, realizing that she must do something. Something was wrong with her husband, and she had to find out what. Ruth continued to walk, trying to quicken her pace to catch up with John. A couple minutes passed as Ruth walked, hoping to see her husband. But abruptly, Ruth stopped as she heard something. A voice. It was somewhat familiar, but it sounded slightly muffled.

"John?" Ruth called out, hoping it was her husband. There was no reply. Instead, Ruth heard the slight echo of what sounded like scuffling.

"John?" Ruth called out again. She bit her lip nervously, and for the first time she felt nervous about being by herself in the woods. Deciding she needed to continue on, Ruth walked foreword. As she did so however, something happened that chilled Ruth down to the very bone— a piercing, unnatural, unearthly scream filled the air, cutting through the trees and reverberating through the woods.

"_John!_" Ruth cried, almost screaming herself. At that, she ran foreword, winding her way through the trees in the direction that the sound came from. All the trees seemed to try and stop Ruth and she ran on; they slapped her face and cut her arms, but she ignored it.

Finally, Ruth came into a clearing. She saw someone as she did, and she let out a sigh of relief.

"John! I thought—" but Ruth stopped. There stood a man, but it was not her husband. He was tall, with dark hair, and he had a tan-coloured trench-coat on. His back was turned to Ruth when she walked up, but when he heard her approach, the man turned. At the sight of him, Ruth slapped a hand over her mouth. He was covered in blood, and there was what looked like a knife, sticking out of his right arm. But he didn't seem bothered by it.

"Oh my God, are you al—" but before Ruth could finish the man was suddenly just _gone_. Ruth gasped as she felt a rush of wind, and what sounded like wings, and the man was _gone_.

"What the hel—" she began, but again she stopped. Her focus was no longer on the spot where the man disappeared, but where there laid a man, writhing on the ground, covered in blood. It was her husband.

An ear-splitting scream erupted from Ruth's throat, filling the air even more loudly than her husband's scream had. Without even thinking, Ruth ran over to her husband, falling to the ground. His throat was slit, and his eyes were rolling back in his head as his blood poured out. He was making an odd gurgling sound. Ruth started hyperventilating, and she screamed again, not knowing what to do. Her husband was choking on his own blood. His eyes focused on Ruth for only a split second, before the light in his eyes seemed to go out and he was dead. All Ruth could see was the image of the tall, bleeding man, standing over her husband. Her _murdered_ husband.


End file.
